Saturday, September 30, 2006

I Am Paralyzed

Chineke God of Allah,!! Sake of say person wan resemble Janet Jackson, I have been working out religiously since the beginning of the semester. I don't know whether I am trying to make up for my year-long hiatus from regular, structured exercise, but I really injured myself on Thursday after I ran, then did (serious) weight exercises on my legs for about 40 minutes. I woke up on Friday with a mysterious pain on the right side of my right leg, between my lower thigh and upper calf. I was not aware that I had a muscle there that could be pulled, and yet there it was, throbbing. Standing up required Herculian strength of will; walking could only start off slowly and painfully. But I was OK. I made it through an afternoon of shopping (spending money I had no right to spend), came home and got ready for a night of drinking with some people I know. I felt energized, so I dressed cute and wore heels. I am an idiot.

After a night of strutting my stuff up and down New Haven, standing around socializing for four hours in my friend's apartment, then standing in the freezing New England wind waiting for the Yale shuttle to take me home at 2:30 in the morning, I got into bed and crashed immediately. Even my toilet dreams couldn't wake me up. You know those dreams you have when you really need to pee, so you dream that you've woken up to pee (sometimes even in your own toilet), then when you really wake up, you find that you're lying in a gigantic wet spot? Well, it's been years since those dreams have managed to successfully fool me (even though now, when I'm awake and peeing, I still have to double-check and make sure that I'm not actually asleep--don't judge me; I'm not the only one who does that!), so even though I peed in my dreams about 4 times, I managed to remind myself that I was still sleeping and needed to stay in control of the situation. Anyway, at 9:06am, I decided that I couldn't put if off any longer; I needed to empty ye old bladder. I attempted to swing my legs out of bed, but I found that every time I shifted anything below my hips, excruciating pain radiated from my thighs to my toes and hair follicles and even shook the bed. I thought I would never get out of bed again, which would have been unfortunate because I still needed to pee really badly. I ended up flinging myself onto the floor, and clawing my way to the bathroom on my elbows and stomach, army-style. Overly dramatic? I think not! It was a waste of time, though, cuz I still had to stand up once I got there and that hurt so much I prayed for my legs to fall off.

I won't bore you with the details, but the fact of the matter is that I am having serious trouble even walking at the moment. I still bravely hobbled to my Pilates class at the gym this morning where I was told that the stretching would help relieve my sore hamstrings, but now even my hobbling has been reduced to a slow, slow, cautious shuffle. The only relief I have comes from long, hot showers but that relief is shortlived. Ah, if only someone would come and give me a massage. And I was supposed to play footie tomorrow. Damn it. How am I supposed to get fit and good-looking if I keep injuring myself??

Now I just bit my inner cheek.
When it rains, it pours.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Basic Instincts

So I'm in Atlanta doing omugwo and I've checked out the baby (my niece). In the words of Steve Brady's mother (all Sex and the City fans will know what I'm talking about), she's a cute fuckin' kid! Looks just like my brother, which means she looks just like my sister, Nat...she looks like Nat's baby pictures, actually. I can already tell we're gonna have a beauty on our hands!

It's weird that I feel this excited about her, cuz I'm not a baby person. Actually, I can't stand children. I've met a couple of friendly ones over the past few years, and I tend to get along with those ones for a few minutes at a time because they have the ability to make me laugh and engage me a bit. Most children, however, are assholes and I ain't afraid to let 'em know it! That being said, I was pretty excited to see my baby Nomsy (whose full name is Innomama Osunyameye Dickson--named after my mommy [and me, and me!] and Nat), which was also a bit disturbing because I was wondering whether I was truly changing. I've been positive since I was fourteen that I didn't want children, at least not more than one just for sake of say "I don born pikin, make una lef me see road", and people keep telling me that "don't worry, one day soon, your biological clock will start ticking and you'll change." When I hit 24 and I was still saying kids were not for me, they said, you're at that age, don't worry, you'll see. So I was a bit apprehensive when I met my baby, cuz I didn't want them to be proved right and yet, here I was all giddy with excitement because we finally have a baby girl in the family.

The first time I held her to put her to sleep, I held her close to my chest, over my left shoulder. Because my mind thinks like I'm writing a novel half the time, I began to subconsciously compose sentences that would describe the maternal feeling that I was supposed to be having. I did this in anticipation of the feeling, but when I kept waiting and waiting for it to kick in and all I felt was a little bit of gas, I was actually very relieved. I'm still kulutempa--no more, no less. It was great to be able to help out the fam by trying to make her sleep--which I am very good at, by the way--but being here has totally confirmed my feelings that I don't really want this for myself. I will make a wicked aunt, though. My plan is to make myself her favorite aunt, by being spontaneous and fun (and rich) and constantly buying her stuff her parents don't want her to have (thanks for the lessons, Aunty Gubsie). We will call them 'contraband' and we will sneak her into my room so she can enjoy them. She will spend her summer vacations with me and we will travel the world, to Spain and India and South Africa (which is something that Gubsie and I never did, but no matter...this will only make me the best aunt that ever lived!). She will tell me all her boyfriend secrets and I will give her great advice and she'll talk to me more than to her parents. It'll be great fun.

In the meantime, I'm making a tape for her that she can look back on when she's 24 and contemplating the craziness that is childrearing. She can watch herself howling at midnight, then again at 2 in the morning, and at 5:30 and at 6:51, see the haggard looks on her father, mother and aunt's faces, and tell herself that baby = madness, whereupon she will put on some wicked stilettos and head out to the club. To have fun with the girls, of course; no sleazy men for my baby girl.

It's already 8:30 and I've slept for about an hour. Ok, ok...3 hours. Either way, babies blow. Going to shit and shower, and hopefully that'll wake me up. Pictures later!

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Gini K'I Siri?!

Forrest Whitaker is Igbo?? As he said it on Oprah, I didn't know when I started clapping on my couch (apparently there were some Igbos in the audience that had the same idea). So now all you Nigerians that like to claim celebrities by force, you can be fully claming the guy with impunity! Biko, leave Nas (Nasruddin) and Ne-Yo (Niyi) alone...they are not Yoruba. And all of you who were stretching to claim R. Kelly as Igbo because of his accent in one song (i.e. "Do you mind if I stroke you up?/Ah-don min'/Do you mind if I stroke you down?/Ah don min'!"), leave that mess behind you. We have authentic, Igbo blood in Hollywood!!!! WHOOOOO!!! I'm sure Adaure will be throwing a party on her spot today!

Sadly, he just had to be mixed with the Ghanaians. He's part Akan as well...damn! But the Igbo blood comes from his father's side, and we all know that father's blood is the reddest. Forrest Whitaker is Naija...whooooo!!!! I wonder if he'll visit, now that he knows...

I Spit On Vonage...Tweh!

A pox on them! Last night, I was in the middle of a phone, I was in the beginning of a phone call. My brother-in-law had just said "Hello" when my phone died. I was alarmed, but not distraught. I just went and got the other phone from my bedroom...and nothing. No dial tone. In confusion, I checked the lights on my modem. I'll explain for the uninitiated. I use Vonage service for my phone, which means that my phone line is directly connected to my internet. Ergo, if my internet is not working, my phone will not work. Internet was working, though, so I went to the Vonage Help Center. They gave me a list of steps for "troubleshooting the device", which I went through patiently. Nada. "No problem," I thought, "I'll just wait until 9 and I'll call them from my cell." Y'all know how it is; no-minutes wahala. It's at times like this I wish I could switch to T-Mobile. 1000 minutes for $40...I mean, is that a gift from God or what?

Anyway, thusly it became 9 o'clock on the night of September 20, whence I ventured upon the dialling of Vonage Technical Support. Like magic, I found myself talking to Deepa of Mumbai, India. IN Mumbai, India. I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I get very irritated when I am talking to a technical support person who, first of all, does not know jack-all about the equipment they are technically supporting, beyond following printed orders that their oga in New York faxed to them. This is often the case when I have to discuss technical matters with any Patel, Singh or Shah that these American companies thrust my way. As soon as Deepa answered the phone, I hissed. I hissed, but I laughed a little because I knew what was going to happen. She was going to make me repeat what I had already done, then send me to someone else to talk to. I figured since I already knew what she was going to do, I might as well graciously comply and obey. I just knew my patience would be rewarded with a speedy transfer back to America. I am an idiot.

For the next 45 minutes, Deepa and I played "Simon Says". By now, many of you know that I have quite the temper. The only way I can control it, for now, is to shut up. So I never said anything. Literally. My utterances were rarely more than a "Mm-hm?" Deepa, on the other hand, was full of orders: Ok, ma'am, can you now unplug the Vonage device from the wall? Now unplug your cable modem. Now plug them back. Now check to see if you have a dial tone. Now go online and type in this IP address. Now carefully follow my instructions, which I will give to you as though you are a retarded four-year-old, as we do these eight or nine things. Now let's do everything again from the beginning five more times." And I never said anything to her except "Mm-hm."

Actually, that's not completely accurate. I remember one time, she said, "Ma'am, can you please plug another phone into your Vonage device and check to see if that has a dial tone?" I was on edge; my voice was gravelly and shaking moderately as I struggled to control myself. I said, "And where am I supposed to get another phone?" Deepa asked, with great incredulity, "You mean you don't have another phone that you can use to check if you have a dial tone?" At that point, what I wanted to say was, "You are very stupid! Does your father have phone?? If you don't come to work, do you smell phone in your village that you are asking me why I don't have spare phone??" But I controlled myself...a little. I employed sarcasm. Instead, I said, "Sorry, I don't happen to keep a stack of phones in my closet for occasions such as this. But I will remember to do that in the future." Deepa ignored me and we carried on for another 25 minutes, she intermittently placing me on hold then coming back to give me more orders, me intermittently hissing and emitting low, "Ohhhhhs" every time she made me "unplug the Vonage device, then unplug the cable modem, then plug them back in and check to see whether you have a dial tone."

I fell of my chair in shock when she finally admitted defeat and transferred me back to America to "Level 2" technical support. There was something about hearing that American accent that soothed me, so I could speak again. Plus, my "technician" was a black lady who was just reading my mind, so you know what helped improve my mood considerably. The first thing she said was, "Oh, well, you guys did everything!" I said, "Well, if after 45 minutes we hadn't, I would be shocked beyond disbelief." She also asked me to disconnect my Vonage device and the modem, bla bla bla, however, she kept apologizing so profusely for making me do it yet again, that I was even happy to comply. She only did it once, but for some reason, this call took almost as long as the last one. 35 minutes later, she said she would transfer me to Level 3 in the chain of authority. Level 3! I was encouraged. Not solely because I thought this was the end of my nearly 2-hour long drama, but because I really couldn't afford to get upset anymore. It's been a tough week emotionally, and I think my heart is about to give out. However, the dude at Level 3 had other plans for me.

So I got connected to Bob, who spoke in the brisk, curt manner of the technically savvy super geek. For some reason, his attitude set me back on edge. He's at Level 3, for goodness' sake. Surely, he knows that only the worst of problems meet him at his doorstep. He has to know that the people who reach him have been frustrated beyond their wits by the numbskulls on Levels 1 and 2. Yet he had no mercy. He asked me to verify my name, account number and billing address (which everyone had done already, and which is a step I find so time-consuming and redundant, even though I know why they think it's necessary), then he asked the same question that I had been asked at every level: "What can I help you with?" I told him: "I don't have a dial tone." He began to ask me to go on the internet and type in this IP address that I had memorized back in Level 1, when I said, "Oh boy, which levels be dis na? No be Level 3 we de so? You no tink say I don do all this one before? Abi you wan make I tell you all your password before you go believe say I don de on top this matter for almost 2 hours? Abeg, abeg, fall in, make we end this kwanta one time!" That's when he said, "Oh ok, let me check your notes here and see what you've done." A whole Level 3 "technician" and he could not even read the notes before he started talking and giving me order. Even the babe at Level 2 knew to do that! I tensed my jaw. One clench, two clenches.

The guy was still going to make me restart all the modems o, but kai, I had had enough. I said, "No, I've been unplugging and plugging for 2 hours,!" Then he said, "OK OK, I'll send you out a new device and you should get it in a couple of days. Your device is faulty." You're all saying "No shit!"; I said it too, under my breath. But I was more concerned about this "in two days" matter because I was going to be out of town from Friday until Monday, and I knew that they'd send it back to sender on Monday. I told him this and said, is there nothing else you can do? He said, "Well, we only have two-day delivery, that's all we offer." I was quiet for a while, because I was partly in shock and partly enraged. I had been on the phone since 9pm, it was now almost 11:30pm and this is what it had come down to?? The low, gravelly voice came back and said the following, very slowly: "I am telling you that I will not be in town when this device is going to be delivered to me. It will almost certainly be returned to you people and I will be without my phone. You people will still charge me as though I have a working phone. And I do not want to have to wait for another 3 or 4 weeks before I get a fucking device in the mail. I have been on the phone with you people for TWO HOURS and you are trying to tell me that there is nothing you can do to help me? Is that what you're telling me?"

He was thinking. I could hear the wheels turning in his nut-sized brain (and I'm not talking about coconut). He started to repeat himself about there being only two-day delivery, then he said, "OK, ma'am hold on, let me just see if I can do something." The air was tense with expectation. I thought, could this really be getting resolved?" On the phone, there was a click, then a ring, then...a voice.

"You have reached the Vonage Account Management department. Our hours are from 8am to __pm. Please call back during our regular business hours. Goodbye." Click. Busy tone.

As I recovered from the blood vessel that burst in my brain, I realized that I was still holding my phone to my ear and that my eyes were closed. I gripped the phone tighter, then held it as though I were going to make another phone call. I wanted to call my boy, but I really could not bring myself to open my eyes. It took nearly two minutes, but I briefly released my eyelids, just long enough to find his number and press "Send". The poor guy was asleep, and he answered, but when I couldn't even open my mouth to utter a response to his two Hello's, he hung up and, I'm assuming, went back to sleep. I, on the other hand, continued to sit in my desk chair, eyes closed, holding the phone. A few moments later, I shut down the computer, turned off all the lights in my apartment and crawled under my bedsheets, fully dressed. I lay on my back, eyes still closed, hand over my eyes, furiously shaking my right leg and trying to resist the urge to curse Vonage and everything they stood for. This is how I fell asleep.

I woke up this morning and resolved to try again, this time using my few remaining precious minutes. I called India. This time, I spoke to Sheba. She attempted to take me through the whole rigmarole again, and I said, no. Transfer me to Level 3. Now. She put me on hold for 3 minutes, then transferred me to Level 2. The man there said, "How may I help you?" I told him my story, then waited for his response. Rien. Zip, nada, zilch. "Hello?" I asked. Then again, "Hello!?" Click. Busy tone.

I became so angry, I become happy again. I laughed, then called India once more. Now Irwinder picked up. Went through the whole Exodus journey again; he transferred me to Level 2. Frank there, insisted on walking me through the whole troubleshooting journal for the umpteenth time. I insisted that I would fly to his house and strangle him in his sleep if he dared to try my patience this early morning. Long story short, I won. Sort of. They're sending my new device in the mail and, hopefully, I'll be here by the last delivery attempt. It's a bittersweet victory. I'm not getting a credit on my account, and I have to pay to return the one that's defective. But what can I do? I'm not Bill Gates, Oprah, or even Jessica Simpson; they don't have to make me happy in order to keep my money.

I'm not going to class today. There's a girl there, Frannie, who is an ITK extraordinaire and has self-appointed herself as our second professor because she spent the summer working for the NIH, which means that she knows more than all of us combined, including our 50-something-year-old esteemed professor. I don't know why she is taking the class with we brainless twits if she already knows everything there is to know and wants to teach instead. If I go to class today, I will tell her to shove it. So I'll just pack for my trip to Atlanta tomorrow to see my new niece. She better be cute.

Update: Ees a meeraycul! I just picked up the phone and it's mysteriously started working again! This, after my internet connection went a little crazy, and I just see now that my microwave has also reset itself. I dunno what's going on here but, thank Providence, I've got my phone back! Now if only Providence could get someone at Vonage to answer their phone so I can cancel that order...

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

And the Winner Is...

Whoever the anonymous person is that reminded me about Corrine Bailey Rae. The annoying thing is, my girl actually has the CD and I was supposed to rip it while I was in London this summer, but I forgot. Too busy club-hopping. Now I gotta buy it.

Anyway, I owe you 20 bucks. Thanks.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Remember These??

People keep trying to pull me deeper into this YouTube frenzy and sadly, I find myself drawn into the fog and quicksand. However, this was a gem of a discovery! My favorite was always the 'Super Visco Static' by AP, mainly because AP sponsored my dad's sitcom, Basi and Company, and so I watched this ad constantly for a whole season until they pulled the plug on him and his mouth!

Doesn't this just conjure up some fabulous memories? For me, I remember Checkmate, Behind the Clouds, The Rich Also Cry, Things Fall Apart and, for some bizarre reason, Sunday Rendezvous. Nothing like watching some bushmeats from Ajegunle getting hot and sweaty in a random "nightclub", then choking themselves on La-la-la-Limca just to win an umbrella! LOL...ah, good times, good times! I still remember some of those steps...actually, I remember seeing people seriously bobbing up and down and wondering what on earth they were doing with their feet that was making them dance like that. Man...where have the good times gone?

What does this stuff remind you of?

By the way, that Joy girl has some big ass teef! Lol...perhaps there is hope for people like me after all!

I'm Scared

There's a used bowl sitting in my sink. I didn't use a bowl last night, and I certainly haven't eaten this morning, so there is no reason why it should be there. So there are only two options here:

1) I sleepwalk all of a sudden and eat whole meals that I have no recollection of, or
2) Someone has been in my house while I was asleep, eaten my food, put it in the sink and run the tap and left and I didn't hear a peep.

As in, I am CONFUSED. If I were sleepwalking, shouldn't I at least have dreamt of eating? HOW could I have woken up in the middle of the night to eat???

I'm scared....

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Please...Help Me...

I'm bored with my music selection. I have over 1,000 songs on my hard drive and about 70 CDs and I can't find anything to listen to. So I'm enlisting your help, internet buddies.

I like:

R&B (which is a wide-open genre, I know, but let the depth of the lyrics guide you to the right choice for your beloved kulutempa :-D)
Sounds of the Continent (kwaito, ndombolo, highlife, soukous, etc.)
Alternative Rock
Punk Rock
Reggae & Soca

I like more than that, but let's start there for now. There's a lot of room for choice in there.

This is serious. I need you to care about this dilemma. Music is my life. I don't have cable, and I can sense that I will be so done with my hookah before long (I smoked myself into a headache yesterday...apparently, your body can't take that much oxygen-deprivation without reacting to it in a negative way). This is also a reflection of your own music tastes, so don't send me crap! And just to make this interesting: $20 to the person who sends me the best selection. Are you interested?

Speaking of which: "Mean Gene", Esq., you need to send me that Jonathan Scofield (sp?) pronto! Four months I've been it right? Is it fair?

For clarification: I'm not asking for music files or CDs or vinyl...just the names of songs or albums that I will try to get a hold of by myself. I thank you in advance for your LOVING concern and assistance in my time of need :-).

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

In My Mind, I'm Still On Vacation

Yesterday represented the first day of my academia-induced depression. I finally realized that the summer was over as a result of the New Haven chill in the air, which also made me realize that I'm back in New Haven for The Duration and that I need to get to work. I don't want to work. So I'm smoking shisha instead. I am so buzzing. I need to do some transcriptions, I need to read...hell, I need to buy the books that I need to read. But I'm smoking shisha instead.

It feels good. I'm going to grill some chicken breasts for dinner and then hit the books again. I've only read 41 pages out of 252, and class is on Thursday. Wow. I have no coherent thoughts. I just realized that I'm going to run out of time for this blog once school starts in earnest, so I'm jotting down as many thoughts as possible, as useless as they are.

Went to the gym today in an attempt to improve my mood. Ran a mile, which was good considering that I haven't run one step (except to chase London buses) since summer of 2005! Then I walked for a while, and hit the weights. Ok, well, I didn't quite hit the weights. I went to a weights orientation class and pretended to exercise with the instructor as he showed us how to use the machines and dumbbells properly. I'm not as unfit as I thought I was. I saw my arm muscles glistening in the mirror and wanted to start holding Ms. Olympia poses. But I restrained myself. It would have been a serious embarrassment! Y'all know how, to the average Nigerian, embarrassment (note the stress in the middle of the word--which is the wrong place. To think I thought for almost 20 years that that was the right way to pronounce the word) is the most terrible of sins and they will go to all length--even commit murder--in order to avoid it. Yes, I watch Nigerian movies and too many of them. I make no apologies.

Speaking of words that Nigerians mispronounce and misuse, let's talk about the word "trafficate". If there is anyone out there who thinks this word exists, please come and talk to me. I remember the first day I said "trafficate" to an American. See confusion. The boy said the word does not exist, I was arguing with him. And I don't know why I like to argue most when I'm wrong. I shout, shout, shout o, come bring dictionary. As we no come find the word inside dictionary, I say na because na American Heritage Dictionary, make e bring Oxford Dictionary come, say e go de inside. Years later, I am yet to find that word even used in any country except Nigeria. The correct term is "signal" o! I don't know where "trafficate" came from.

Big News: my mama's first grandchild and niece was born yesterday and she's named after us (I'm named after my mom, she's named after my mom, my mom ain't here, so I'm claiming her as mine)!!! I'm so excited to see her. Going to Atlanta next weekend to see my baby...this is so awesome!!!!!!!!!! My sister-in-law's water broke in a store in the mall, just like in a movie, and despite the fact that this is her first pregnancy and first baby, she only had a four-hour labor. I love her, but damn! No stretch marks, didn't gain but 15 or 18 pounds and now this! It's 7am, I'm exhausted, but happy, and I need to find something to do or I'll fall back asleep.


Friday, September 08, 2006


WARNING: The contents of this blog are fairly explicit and pretty personal. Read of your own compulsion. I don't want to hear if you were offended!

I was going to write about the sexual fantasies that tickle our fancies (following extensive "research"), but recent events have forced me to change my mind. Some of you are going to continue on and read this, then assume that it pertains to sex. Do not be fooled by your own ignorance. This is about an obsession with clearing clutter. As you might know, I spent the numerous hours between Monday night and Wednesday morning cleaning my apartment after witnessing filth beyond my imagination in my own living space. We won't talk about the cow who created the filth and absconded without even leaving an explanatory note. Anyway, I suppose I was on a roll with the cleaning and the clearing. I was unstoppable. After I finished with my apartment, I went to work on myself. Gave myself a mani-pedi. Shaved my 'pits, shaved my legs. Nair-ed my stomach, tweezed my eyebrows. As I began my bi-weekly hedge-trimming, I wondered for the umpteenth time what it would be like if I didn't have to keep using the scissors, what It might look like bald and if I shouldn't just take the plunge and do it once and for all. I've been waffling back and forth on the question of waxing for over a year (To Wax or Not To Wax?). I decided last night that it was time to just go ahead and yank those wiry suckers out of their follicles. Bald Eagle, baby!

I went on the internet and did some research to boost my courage and reassure myself that I was doing the right thing. It wasn't encouraging. For the most part, the articles out there in cyberspace like to emphasize that the pain is horrific and unbearable, then they turn right around and say, "but you'll LOVE the results!" Maybe I have a mental block. But all I could think of was this pain and I wondered how you could "LOVE the results!" after such an experience. How beautiful could it be where you go through that much pain and just keep going back? No one says how long the pain is supposed to last, by the way. They just emphasize all the things that could go wrong and that you want to try and avoid. Mm-hm, how about we hear more about the actual experience, internet bikini-waxing gurus?? Nevertheless, I trudged ahead. I woke up this morning and headed to the nail shop, armed with a glowing optimism that was laden with ignorance...and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I would live to regret this day.

So I went to the Asians with their acrylic and nail polish and lack of English. Somehow I managed to communicate that I wanted a wax and so we walked into the back room, me and the Asian lady. She asked me, "You wanna takiroroff (take it all off)?" (at least, I assume that's what she said) and I said, "No, I want a little triangle when you're done." Then she goes, "Lemme see." The lack of hesitation with which I dropped my draws was rather shocking, considering I'd never met this woman before in my life, not to talk of showing her my "down-below". Anyway, I showed her and drew an imaginary triangle where I wanted mine to be, then she said, "Ok, " grabbbed the talcum powder and nodded at my shorts. I took that to mean that I could get "nekked", so I stripped from the waist down, hopped onto the tissue-lined bed and lay down, eagerly and naively anticipating what would happen next.

A flurry of Johnson's Baby Powder snowed down on me, some waxing strips were laid on my belly, she spread my legs and went to work. I have to say, those first twenty rips were pretty painful. I tried to let her know that it was my first time and that she should be gentle, but I don't think she understood. Each time she slathered wax on me, she sucked in her breath--Ssssss--as if to say, "This is going to hurrrrrrt....," laid down the waxing strip, and let 'er rip. And, boy, did it rip! I strong sha--I no shout. I did forget to breathe for about 3 seconds, though. With the second rip, I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I smiled bravely and let out a quivering breath. By the fifth rip, I needed to shout, but I didn't want the people outside to know what was happening. So I shouted in my throat: "MMMM!" and thrashed my legs a bit. At that point, all I could think about was the fact that she hadn't even gotten to the nether regions, the tenderest part of the peach, and that when she got there, I was going to die. I was going to burst a blood vessel in my brain and just die. She tore some more hair and flesh off me, at which point I blacked out. When I woke up, she was done.

Yeah right. I wish that's what happened. Instead, at that point, I raised one of my arms weakly and covered my eyes, still shaking my legs. She laughed at me, which translated to: Sebi you said you want to wax? You never see anything!

Well, then she got there. The nether regions. And I don't know what it was: maybe I was motivated by her laughter or maybe I had reached a place beyond pain, but the waxing of my Place of Sweet Surrender was actually the least excruciating pain of all. In fact, I quite enjoyed it. The erotic warmth of the wax traveled down to my toes, and the rrrrip of the waxing strip as it took my hairs with it didn't have the quite the same sting as before. In fact, since my brain was no longer preoccupied with surviving the pain, I had time to marvel at the fact that a strange Asian lady was looking at, fingering and spreading my most private of privates and I wasn't even self-conscious about it! Had I become an exhibitionist and masochist all in a matter of minutes? I asked myself, are masochists made or are they born? When did this self-liberation occur and where had I been when it was happening?

I was almost sad when the experience came to an end. She soothed the area with some baby oil, brought out a pair of tweezers to take care of some strays, and I directed her to a few that she missed. That was a truly priceless moment. "No, you missed these ones right here...yeah, pluck that one...and that one...fabulous!" When I asked for a mirror, I knew then that there is nothing I cannot do in this life. She explained her work to me, pointing here and there, I gave an approving nod and thanked her, and just like that, we were done. Together we laughed at the amount of hair that she had ripped out of me, and then she informed me that "most people just takiroroff." She seemed disappointed in me, and a bit confused at my decision to go with the triangle. I wanted to explain to her that the internet bikini-waxing gurus said that first-timers shouldn't go Bald Eagle, but she probably wouldn't have understood. So I said, "Next time," and she nodded: Great! Then she left the room and left the door open as I put on my shorts so the whole world would have a chance to see her work. Bloody cow.

So yeah, it was a pretty good experience, I have to say. Twelve of the most unforgettable minutes I will ever have. I'm not sharing because I feel a need for the world to know what I look like at the moment (because you couldn't and don't know, even though I'm sure your imagination might be working on it--lemme help you: it's beautiful *wink*), but because I finally feel truly clean. My apartment is clean, my body is totally clean (at least in my OCD mind) and I've learned something about myself: I'm fearless. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is worthy of blogging about.

Or I'm an exhibitionist with no shame and a mouth that runs like tap. Whatever. I'll redeem myself at some point in life.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

It Has Happened

There is dog piss on my beautiful couch. And all over my living room carpet. And every surface that used to be white is either brown or black. I opened my bathroom door and staggered back three steps because of the overwhelming stench of dog and human waste. I opened the toilet and called upon the Lord, because I could not even have crouched over what I saw in there. I had to drive to DC to shower because there was no way that I was putting one toe in my shower. I had to spray Lysol in the sink before I could brush my teeth. And I could not see my face clearly in the mirror because of the dried toothpaste-and-spit mixture that decorated it. And the girl is expecting her security deposit. Hm-hm! Do you know she even had the audacity to leave the dog's food and toys for me in my cupboards? Hm-hm!

I have to give credit to the makers of cleaning supplies in America sha. I didn't have to scrub the toilet at first after I put Clorox's Toilet Cleaner with Bleach. Almost all that mess was bleached right off. Then I put on my glove and face mask, got the scrubbing brushes and went to work. It took me almost 2 hours to finish the bathroom, but every surface is gleaming (even behind the toilet--I was a madwoman at work yesterday) in there. I almost licked the toilet just to prove that I could (but that's still gross and I'd never do that without a gun being pointed to my head--would you lick a toilet green with bacteria, algae and brown with shit for $8,000?). Anyway Lysol, Clorox, and Comet products are the shit. Use 'em!

As I cleaned, I was envisioning all kinds of court scenarios, in case she tries to sue me for keeping her security deposit. Me in front of Judge Judy or Judge Joe Brown, telling them how this girl is a disgusting pig, showing them all the pictures I took as evidence of her disgusting self and habits (and I took SO many pictures), bringing my character witnesses to say that there is no way I would have lived in a place like this, talk less of accepting as the way the apartment was when she moved in (cuz she was meant to have left the place in the same condition as it was when she met it). Bloody thief. She wants to 419 Naija babe. Story go pass story when I finish with this chick.

Anyway, on another tip, I've been obsessed with the question of what one would do for the right price. For example, if you're a guy, how much would you accept to kiss, i.e. smooch and rrrrromance, another dude? I "offered" $80K, but most guys are like, "If I can pick the guy, I will do it for even $1K sef!" Apparently, knowing that the guy has good oral hygiene is very important. And yet I have had to suffer through more than one dirty-mouth, bad breath kissing session in my life in the name of "love". Men are very stupid and selfish. Back to the task at hand: how much would you accept to lick that toilet I described in one of my former posts ? (Come to think of it, since I left Ife, my life has begun to revolve around toilets and their states of hygiene.) Ladies, how much would you accept to have sex with two dudes at the same time? And while we're on it, would the guys have sex with another guy for $10 million? Would anyone accept money to kiss Jim Iyke? That requires an "LOL" in, I would have to see the briefcase full of money, and it would have to be within reach so I can snatch it as soon as I have finished kissing the guy, cuz he looks like TicTacs will not help him in this life!

Ok, I have to go back to cleaning. I have been cleaning this place since Monday night; which kain nonsense...and she wants security deposit. Hm-hm!

Update: She and/or her dog pissed on my comforter. There are giant and tiny yellow stains all over my EXPENSIVE, DOWN comforter that have smells that strongly resemble that of urine.

And she wants her security deposit back.

I have entered the white-rage stage of anger.